Revelations
by TUYCCTBMLS
Summary: "He knew the army doctor wouldn't have stayed there forever, he had to leave at some point." Set three years after S2, Ep3. John finds out the truth, but not in the way the consulting detective had planned. ONESHOT. Sequel to The Final Act. No slash.


_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Doctor Who, I just mess with the lives of the characters. Like a puppet master. *cackles evilly like a witch*_

The street was deserted; there wasn't even a sleek black London cab driving past. Sherlock stood outside of 221B, watching the windows intently – he knew John wasn't living there anymore, he'd found out yesterday when he decided to do some research on what had happened in the past few years he had missed. The fact that John had left had made Sherlock feel strange inside; it was an unknown feeling, making him feel uneasy and edgy. He knew the army doctor wouldn't have stayed there _forever_, he had to leave at some point. It wasn't as if Sherlock had expected John to be sat waiting for him in their old home. Although, he had hoped a little.

The night air was humid making the detective fidget in his long coat and scarf. Quickly, Sherlock analysed the building he had not been in for 3 years. Well, he had been there last night, but that was in 2012, not 2015. Looking at the dusty windows and limp curtains, he quickly deduced that no one else was living there currently and that they hadn't done for some time.

So what he didn't expect was the twitch of the curtain with a shocked John Watson staring at him, eyes enlarged and mouth forming an 'O'. Sherlock cursed inwardly, this was _not_ how he wanted John to find out.

The army doctor bolted from the window, practically jumping down the stairs and flying to the entrance of 221B. He threw the large door open and stepped out to the street, dressing gown and all. Looking around, excitement rapidly fell from his face at the deserted street. John walked slowly to the edge of the curb, last week's newspaper falling from his hands onto the pavement.

"Oh God..." he said, heart shattering, "When is this going to end? When is this going to be over..." his voice broke on the last word and he held a hand up to his distraught face. Aside from the night time London traffic in the background, all was quiet on Baker St. John stood there for a minute, trying to get his bearings.

"It's over John." A soft voice said unexpectedly from behind him. John froze, hand dropping from his face, shoulders rigid and eyes opening wide.

"Sh...Sherlock?" John managed to whisper out, still facing away from the owner of the voice, as if he was afraid to turn around and discover nothing there.

"You will _never_ know how truly sorry I am, John." The voice said again. John felt a warm and familiar hand resting on his quivering shoulder. It made him feel angry.

"YOU!" John swirled around suddenly, slamming a fist into Sherlock's face and almost knocking him to the ground, "YOU STUPID STUPID MAN" John punched Sherlock again, in the stomach this time, winding the detective. "HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME!" John threw another punch to Sherlock's face, then abruptly slumped forwards, hands on knees, breathing hard. "How could you..." he breathed.

Sherlock rubbed a thumb over his bleeding lip and spoke softly, the sound covering up the current pain he was feeling. "I know you can never forgiv-"

Sherlock never finished his sentence because John hastily lunged forwards. Sherlock winced and shut his eyes awaiting the punches that he so deserved, but what happened caught him off guard. John grabbed Sherlock's arms in an almost painful grip, and then pulled him into a fierce hug, body trembling. Sherlock stood in shock for a moment, surprised and unsure of what to do.

"Oh for God's sake Sherlock, hug me you stupid man" John ordered.

"...You've already called me that" Sherlock replied after a beat. The consulting detective smiled genuinely, his hands grasping John in a hug with equal strength. It was silent for a moment, the noise of the London traffic forgotten. John had his detective back, and he was never going to let him leave again.

"Piss off" John said finally, pulling away and holding Sherlock at arm's length, "Sorry about that..." he said, motioning with his head to the split lip and cut on his friend's cheek, "had to make sure you were… real." His hands dropped to his side.

"You were fully entitled to punch me John. I deserve much more." Sherlock said, looking down to the pavement.

"You do." Sherlock looked up. "But there's plenty of time for me to beat you up later..." John quipped.

"No John. You can't just forgive me. You _shouldn't_ forgive me. _Ever_." Sherlock said looking John in the eyes. "If you knew what I have just done... I took the easy way out, John. You had to wait for 3 years, and I just skipped over them like it was nothing." John gave Sherlock a quizzical look.

"You're right. I shouldn't forgive you. And I won't." There was a flash of some sort of emotion on Sherlock's face, but John couldn't place it.

"At least, not right now anyway." John finished. The consulting detective's eyes grew wider. John was really enjoying this; it was probably the most emotion he had ever seen on the detective's face. _Correction: It _was_ the most emotion he had ever seen_, John thought. And it was probably the most he was ever going to see.

"Now get inside." John demanded, picking up the newspaper he had dropped earlier and shoving the mess of pages into Sherlock's hands. "You can make me a cup of tea too."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Why should I?"

"You left me, Sherlock." John stated, eyebrow raised.

"You're never going to let me forget that are you."

"Not a chance" he said with a grin, "Milk and sugar please Sherlock, and grab me a biscuit too." John smirked; he turned on his heel and marched back into the flat, waiting in the hallway to make sure the detective didn't try to disappear on him again.

"John, what's all that noise? It's 2 in the morning!" said a disgruntled Mrs Hudson, emerging from her apartment.

"He's back Mrs Hudson! He's _back_!" John said, barely able to keep the excitement out of his voice. Mrs Hudson's face grew stunned as the dark figure emerged into the porch.

"Hello Martha" said the man, in a low voice.

"Sherlock!" She paled and didn't say anything for a second. "I knew it!" Mrs Hudson teetered towards Sherlock, who bent down and gave her a small peck on the cheek, "I said to John, of _course_ Sherlock wouldn't be dead, and here you are." She smiled, "I suppose you'll be wanting your old room back then? Your things are still here, just as you left them."

Sherlock looked at John in surprise, "I thought you had moved out?"

"I did, but you didn't." John said simply. He gave Sherlock a quick smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Thank you." Sherlock said quietly. There was a pause.

"Sorry to have woken you up Mrs Hudson" John said, looking at the older woman apologetically.

"Nonsense, I wouldn't have missed this for the world! Now you two get upstairs and start talking. You've probably got quite a bit of catching up to do." Mrs Hudson said, before patting Sherlock on the cheek and John on his shoulder. "I'll check in tomorrow morning and see how you're doing. You might even get a cooked breakfast out of it!" With that, she left the two men in the hallway of 221B.

Sherlock looked at John, who had his eyes lowered. Putting the newspaper under his arm, he shut the front door and turned the deadlock. He strode past John and paused at the bottom of the stairs, saying over his shoulder "Cup of tea and a biscuit coming up." Then he jogged up the stairs.

John sank back, resting against the wall. _He's back... he isn't dead John… So _why_ do you feel like this? You should be happy, jumping for joy – not sad, sad and scared_, he thought. But he couldn't help it. Moisture started to build up in his eyes so he blinked furiously, Sherlock didn't need to see him like this. He took a deep breath. And another. But, there wasn't enough air reaching his lungs.

By the time Sherlock had come down to see what to hold up was, John had slid to the floor, knees pressed up against his chest, his skin clammy and a pale pallor.

"John?" Sherlock said, crouching beside the man and taking hold of his shoulder. _He's going into shock_, the detective noticed, checking his pulse._ Too fast, he needs warmth_. "Okay John, we're just going to go upstairs." He talked John through what he was doing in a soothing voice, as well as adding a lot of nonsense in those few minutes it took to reach the top of the stairs. When they reached the room, he set John down on his armchair and ran off to grab the blanket off of his old bed. He placed it on the other man and sat there with him, talking nonstop about anything and everything to try and calm the army doctor.

After 20 minutes or so, John started to look better, his cheeks looking pinker and his heart rate reaching a normal pace.

It was about 3am when John finally spoke, interrupting Sherlock's rather interesting story about his experiment on testing the convalescence of a snail's outer shell.

"Tea?" He said.

"Maybe we should wait until you're feeling a bit better? Don't want you to be sick."

"I'm a doctor, and I say: tea." John replied, stubbornly. Sherlock nodded in grim amusement, and went to make a fresh pot. He returned a few minutes later, minus his coat and scarf, but with the addition of a tray, complete with a steaming cup and saucer, and a selection of biscuits – but John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock placed the tray down and loosened the top button on his shirt.

"John?" He said, worry evident in his voice. He slacked off his tie a little in the muggy room. "John?" His voice rose. The door to Sherlock's room opened, revealing a sickly looking John.

"What, I can't go to the toilet without your permission?" John almost joked, walking through the kitchen and plonking down on his chair, pushing away the blanket. Sherlock glared at the army doctor and sat down on the chair opposite. John saw the tray and seized the cup and saucer of hot tea, taking a sip.

"Jesus, you'd have thought Sherlock Holmes would have been able to teach himself how to make a better cup of tea in the past 3 years." John stated, smiling at the other man. Sherlock's face froze. "What?" John said, unknowingly.

"There's something you should know John. About how I survived. And how I got here." Sherlock said after a few minutes.

"Ah yes, the survival. I was trying to think of how you could have done it. I had a few idea's, but... none of them seeme-"

"John. Just let me explain, please... I have to get this off my chest." Sherlock interrupted. John looked taken aback, but nodded after a moment.

And then Sherlock told him. Everything. He told John about how he met The Doctor, and how his blue box was a time travel machine. He told John of the adventures they had been on over the years, and how he had survived The Fall. Then he told John how he had to leave John for three years in order to ensure his, and others lives.

And then he told John how he had skipped the three years, leaving the army doctor to suffer alone for all that time.

During the whole explanation, John didn't say a word. He made the odd face at something that sounded stupid or insane, but he just sat there watching the consulting detective. When Sherlock finished, he looked at John and waited with baited breath. John was quiet for a minute.

"You _do_ know how that sounds, don't you Sherlock? You sound crazy. Like you're off your rocker... I have half a mind to get you locked up in a padded room." John said

"It's quite hard to perceive, but all of what I just told you was the truth. All of it." Sherlock emphasised.

It was quiet again, as John thought about something. He took a sip of his tea, dragging his head back when he realised it was long cold. He put it down and changed positions on the chair.

"Say something, John" Sherlock almost pleaded

"I... I want you to leave." Sherlock looked stricken.

"Yes… of course, I'll not bother you again. Sorry…" Sherlock said, unable to contain the grief on his face at the statement.

"No you muppet, I mean leave and come back in the _morning_! It _is_ about 4am you know" John said, realising what his previous words had sounded like.

"Oh…" Sherlock looked shocked, but relief was flooding his face , "Good… good… that's good."

"Don't mumble Holmes, you sound as crazy as your story does." John said lightly.

"Right… yes, sorry. I'll come back tomorrow then." The detective said, barely able to hold back a smile of contentment.

"Yes, you nonce" John said in a joking manner.

Sherlock turned to leave, nodding at _his_ army doctor. However, Sherlock hadn't expected _The_ Doctor to turn up anytime soon. Unfortunately, John's plan of sleep was just about to go down the drain; a cyclic groaning and wheezing sound filled the flat, causing alarm to cross John's face.

"Oh for the love of… Doctor! This _really_ isn't a good time!" Sherlock almost shouted.

"What _is_ that, Sherlock?" John said, apprehension filling his features.

"It's The Doctor" Sherlock said, exasperated.

The TARDIS materialised quickly in between Sherlock and John, blocking each other's view. It was the same as it always had been; an electric blue police box, complete with a flashing light that pulsated in time with the wheezing noise.

"Sherlock?" John said uncertainly from behind the blue box. The strange sound stopped suddenly and the flashing light ceased, bringing 221B back into dimness. The door swung inwards and The Doctor leaned out, looking the same as always – ready for action, complete with bow tie, tweed jacket and silly hairdo.

"Sorry Sherlock, is this a bad time?" He said, not sorry at all. Sherlock glared at the tall man, muttering complaints at him. The detective stalked around the carefully placed TARDIS to John, who looked very dubious.

"This is _him_? The one you've been on about?" John said incredulously, looking from Sherlock, to The Doctor, then back to Sherlock.

"Unfortunately…" Sherlock said, annoyance still evident on his face.

"_Unfortunately_? Oh _Sherly_, that's no way to introduce someone. First impressions mean _everything._" He stepped out of the TARDIS and ambled up to John. "Hello, I'm The Doctor" he said, grabbing a bewildered John's shoulders and air-kissing each cheek. John stood there, staring at The Doctor with a dazed look. The Doctor stepped back and beamed at him. "Doesn't speak much does he?" he stated, looking at Sherlock.

"Well if you'd give him a chance to breathe, Doctor… Do you really expect him to be feeling his best when you've just gone and landed your time machine in his living room?" Sherlock said, walking over to John. "Maybe you should sit down again John, this is probably quite a shock."

"A shock? This is bloody _ridiculous_!" John fumed, "There is an _alien_ here, who has just landed his space ship in _my_ flat and you think I'm in bloody _shock_?" He looked lost for words, mouth opening and closing. He made a snap decision. "OUT, BOTH OF YOU OUT! NOW! SHERLOCK," he took a breath, lowering his voice to a more controlled level, "come back tomorrow. I can't deal with this right now."

"Right yes, of course – I'm sorry John" he turned to The Doctor who had a slightly surprised expression, "you heard the man, let's go." Sherlock tugged on the Timelord's jacket, but The Doctor held a hand up to stop him. He looked John in the eyes.

"John, I appreciate that this is all very new to you, but I want you to know… he did it all for you, you know. It was _all_ to make sure you lived. Just remember that." The Doctor said, all amusement replaced with seriousness. John looked at the strange man for a second, trying to figure him out. He nodded at The Doctor and then Sherlock, who took that as a sign to leave. Sherlock grabbed his discarded coat and scarf, tucking it under his arm and they clambered into the TARDIS, Sherlock pausing at the door.

"Sleep well John, I'll see you soon." And then they were gone.

John plonked down onto his chair after a minute and took a sip of his tea, grimacing again when he realised it was the cold one from earlier. "Sleep...?" John said sceptically to himself, "I don't think I'll ever bloody sleep _again_!" He said, putting the cup down and grabbing Sherlock's rumpled duvet. He wrapped himself up and stared at nothing for a while. "What in the world just happened…?" John eventually dropped off into a fitful slumber, dreaming about flying blue boxes, falling men and cups of cold tea, unaware that he was being safely watched over by a certain mysterious man – a man with his cheekbones, who turned up his coat collar to look 'cool'.

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_Peace out, Holmies._


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